


Game

by Itsallfine



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Flirting, Love Confessions, M/M, Sexual Tension, Somehow, not truly based on the Downey films but the voice is closest I think, secrecy, victorian sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 11:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine
Summary: Holmes and Watson pass notes at crime scenes. It’s totally innocuous. Until it isn’t.





	Game

**Author's Note:**

> Someone replied to my request for ficlet prompts earlier this year with “there’s never enough texting/sexting fics” and that... somehow... became this? Victorian sexting? Whatever, man.

We play a dangerous game, Holmes and I. 

Men like us, we live and die by our discretion. But Holmes and I have our own particular peculiarities. A bit of risk. A bit of danger. 

And when our proclivities and peculiarities meet, it makes for a most heady mixture indeed.

The first incident was innocuous enough. A crime scene, a note passed from his hand to mine, his cramped scrawl reading:  _ Look to your right and await my signal. _

I obeyed, as I always do, his written words compelling me as easily as his voice.

The next crime scene, the same:  _ Watch the man in the grey hat closely. Be ready. _

I am always at the ready for him.

_ When I hand you my hat, look inside. Secret the contents into your pocket for later analysis. _

_ Go to the next room, count to thirty, then return here.  _

_ Stand between the Inspector and I. Block his view as best you can. _

_ The man in the corner has a knife in his front right pocket. Be wary. _

For months these tiny secrets passed between us, at first only on occasion, then more frequently, until every case featured at least one covert message. It became commonplace. 

Then, slowly, the notes began to shift. 

_ Look closely at Lestrade’s face as I say my piece. Try not to laugh, my dear boy. _

_ Don’t you think that woman’s ridiculous feathered hat would look terribly amusing on Gregson? _

_ My bones will never be warm again. When we return home, I desire a brandy and your company by the fire.  _

Impish, but innocent enough. 

It’s expected of us now, this surreptitious exchange of scraps over bodies and blood. The inspector pays it no mind, assuming as I am sure the others do that it is merely another of Holmes’ quirks, a method of keeping his deductions between us until the moment of his grand reveal.

I wonder on occasion whether he intended it, this slow desensitization. It made way for what came next.

Another day, another crime scene. Holmes in a devilish mood like no other, flitting from point to point with manic energy, but with an unusual edge to his focus. The note came, as I knew it eventually would, and I unfurled it with relief, sure that it would explain Holmes’ unusual behavior.

_ That suit is utterly distracting. Never wear it while we are on a case ever again. _

I held my expression completely still, let no hint of my reaction show externally, though my breath pounded at the inside of my lungs, demanding to be let free in a gasp or protestation. I folded the scrap, as I had so many others before it, and tucked it carefully within the pocket of my waistcoat with a studied disinterest, though my thoughts raced. Distracting how? Distracting why? Was something about it disturbing the delicate instrument of his observation? 

Holmes, for his part, showed absolutely no irregularity at all, sniffing and prodding at the body before us like any other day, as if passing these words to me had relieved the burden that had driven him to madness. We were off before long, down to the docks in pursuit of some vagrant or another, and my mind turned fully to its most important priority: protecting Holmes from both enemy and self.

I wore that suit on as many cases as I could justify after that.

Two weeks later we found ourselves at another such scene, this one after dark and in a poorly lit park. The cover of darkness always provided me some comfort, as though the shadow over my features could conceal my nature from any who might suspect. Perhaps I felt too secure, in fact.

Holmes bent this way and that, occasionally standing to rattle off some string of arcane facts that were surely relevant, could I but focus on the words rather than the mouth producing them. Another scrap made its way to my hand before long, the words difficult to make out in the dim light. 

_ You are staring in a most indiscreet way, my dear Watson. I find it quite charming.  _

I’m afraid I was unable to school my reactions. I coughed to cover the sudden rush of heat to my face, hoping to excuse the redness I was sure must glow brightly in Lestrade’s lantern light. I had known it was only a matter of time before Holmes, master of observation that he is, would perceive my attentions. I had hoped he would do me the kindness of letting it remain undeclared. 

I should have known better. 

Charming, he said. My dear Watson. 

I looked at him from the corner of my eye and was immediately caught out. I’m quite sure no one else would have detected the slight curl at the corner of his mouth, but I, having conducted extensive study of the mouth in question, saw it for what it was. My belly warmed, though I kept outwardly unruffled, and I took up my ink pen to write my own damnation.

_ If you wish me not to stare, perhaps don’t lean about in such ways. _

The exchange was as every other had been. Casual, unhurried, in plain view of all present. And Holmes, as he read my confirmation, did what only one so daring as he would do. 

He got to his feet, circled round the body twice with his gaze firmly affixed upon it, and stopped with his back to me, only a few feet away. Then he bent from the waist to inspect the man’s shoes, providing me with quite a target for my gaze indeed. I desperately hoped my panic (and other related emotions) did not show upon my face as I turned away with all due haste, studying the building next to us with Holmesian intensity and reciting the bones of the body in an attempt to distract my traitorous mind. 

A moment later, a light touch upon my elbow drew my attention back to the moment. Holmes’ mouth taunted me once again as he presented me with the scrap that could spell our imprisonment and ruin. My heart sped with the thrill of it, doubly so when I read the words he had given me:

_ I never said I did not wish it, John. _

Oh, how I longed to hear that name from his tongue rather than his pen. 

For the remainder of the case we exchanged subtle glances, brief moments where his gaze would seize upon mine, hooking me in, daring me further. But despite this outrageous flirtation, we did not immediately return to our chambers to consummate our shared desire. We let it fill all the spaces between us, let it simmer and develop into something more complex, richer, until I could hardly be within reach of him without my ardour becoming apparent. Scraps of paper left in pockets, folded into books, passed at crime scenes, palmed with slight of hand, increasingly wicked and damning and wholly exciting.

One evening as we sat to dine with Inspector Lestrade, Holmes slid one of our tiny sins across the table to me in plain view. Lestrade took note, of course, but paid no mind. It was typical for us by now. Expected. I took half a moment to compose myself, knowing the contents would most certainly test my control to its limits, then unfolded the scrap behind the cover of my teacup.  

_ I wish I could lower myself beneath this table and take you in my mouth, bring you to your pleasure, right here in front of all these assembled. Right in front of Lestrade. _

Were I not practiced at this game by now, I surely would have flushed so deeply that Lestrade would demand to see the evidence. As it were, I directed my gaze casually at a table in the far corner, as if Holmes had perceived something of which I should take note, then dropped my gaze back to the paper and drew out my pen. 

_ Would that you could, for I would love nothing more than to thread my fingers through your hair and push myself into that sinful mouth, study the way your lips would stretch around me. We could make quite the experiment of it. _

I always took great satisfaction in flustering the great detective.

“Inspector, I’m afraid something has come up and we must take our leave,” he declared, snatching his napkin from his lap with haste. “Please forgive our rudeness. The matter is quite urgent.”

Our main course chose that moment to arrive, of course, placed before us with great flourish. Holmes’ expression was pained. I tucked my napkin with an almost cheeky smile. 

“Holmes, surely we can finish our supper first. It looks positively… delicious.”

Besides which, I needed a moment before I would be able to stand without alerting Lestrade and all assembled to Holmes’ particular effect on me. The tips of Holmes’ ears turned red, a subtle tell I knew to look for, but he replaced his napkin and settled himself with a put-upon air. 

“As you wish, Watson, though I will blame you if the delay results in the matter being resolved far too quickly upon our arrival.”

It was all I could do not to laugh into my roast pheasant. As it was, I took up my knife and fork and resolved to eat with as much haste as manners would allow.  

Inspector Lestrade kept up a steady conversation throughout the meal, though it only served to prove once again that his skills as a detective were somewhat lacking. Even a simpleton could observe the thorough distraction of Lestrade’s audience, though Holmes at least could always be written off as eccentric in his attention at best. I, on the other hand, had no such excuse. I believe I comported myself quite well, under the circumstances—the circumstances being Holmes’ knee pressed close to mine under the table, his shoe nudging against mine every few minutes in a silent urge to  _ hurry up _ . 

We begged out of dessert and thanked Lestrade for a fine meal at our earliest convenience, then all but fled the building with our coats pulled tight around our bodies. The second we were within the semi-private confines of a cab, on our way back to Baker Street, Holmes pressed himself along my side and breathed hotly into my ear. 

“I want every inch of you, John,” he murmured, rich tones that shivered their way town my spine to settle between my legs. I gasped as his hand landed on my knee and began a slow drag up my thigh, and I barely had the presence of my to meet his hand with my own and halt its ascent. 

“Holmes,” I whispered, “you are the soul of torment. Pray wait until we get home, else I won’t be decent to leave this cab when we get there!”

“Perhaps I prefer you indecent, my dear doctor,” he purred, though he let his hand drift back to my knee all the same. 

I turned to look at his striking face, and our gazes caught in a way that had become increasingly common between us: heat, and longing, and a tension so great it pulled at the very heart of my heart and begged that I take this man as close as bodies allow. My most intimate friend, the most important person in my life, and truly the greatest love I have ever known. 

I had enjoyed our courtship, our subtle flirtation, but my greatest fear shone clear through my eyes, I was certain: that for Holmes, that master of logic and reason, lust would prove an acceptable indulgence, while the softer emotions would remain a source of scorn and weakness. I would take anything from him, however, even to my own detriment. 

If his body were all he offered, I would worship at his altar and be grateful.

His hand upon my leg tightened once, then disappeared as he broke our gaze. He withdrew a fresh scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled a short message, then handed it over with solemnity, letting our hands linger together over the exchange. 

I unfolded the tiny message with every care, slow and methodical.

_ I do love you so, my dear John. Let me show you. _

My heart clenched in my chest, and my eyes stung as I read the words over and over. I should have known, should have known my thoughts would be so easily readable to him. He was master of many things, after all, but none more than of my own heart and mind.   
  
I folded the scrap carefully back to his original shape and met his solemn gaze. Had I not made such an intimate study of him over the years, I never would have noticed the pinch of worry at the corners of his mouth. That mouth was my constant obsession, though, and so I knew that he feared my reaction to his blatant declaration. I brought the scrap to my lips and pressed the rough paper to them, let my eyes fall shut as I imagined the taste of Holmes in its place.    
  
My heart ached for it, for him, and I was nearly ready to throw caution to the wind and claim his lips right then and there. The cab slowed to a halt, however, and I reluctantly pulled away. I did not want to break the moment; and yet, on the other side of that moment lay our home, and privacy, and a great many other possibilities. With a quick brush of my fingers against his, I slid from the cab and paid the driver, bidding him a good evening.    
  
As the clatter of hooves receded into the distance, I turned to face Holmes in the faint lamp light. His expression was softer than I'd ever seen it, and it brought with it a current of deepest joy I'd never felt to such a degree. He truly did offer everything I sought, everything my poor heart cried out for. Not a cold machine of analysis and logic after all, or at least, not only that. He was also a man, one with desires and a heart to offer.   
  
I was only too happy to oblige.    
  
"Shall we head inside?" I asked, keeping my voice low. One last chance for him to pull away, if he wished to.    
  
He smiled, though, and the warmth of it chased away every shiver the night air brought.   
  
"Yes," he said, firm and sure. "I've been waiting for a long time, and I'm finding myself rather impatient, my dear doctor."   
  
I took his arm as we walked toward the door with a smile I could not stop if I tried.    
  
"Well, far be it from me to keep you in suspense, my dear detective."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my "In Progress" folder for MONTHS waiting for me to add the smut on the end of it and it just hasn't happened. I just want it off my plate at this point. I'm marking it complete for now, but I reserve the right to come back, increase the rating, and add some actual sex later. If you feel like it needs it or that it's fine how it is, let me know in the comments!
> 
> (Other smuttier BBC Sherlock fics are coming soon, so never fear—smut is here.)


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